


Release

by xtricks



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-03
Updated: 2010-09-03
Packaged: 2017-10-11 11:05:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/111729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xtricks/pseuds/xtricks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was his duty to sleep, to wake refreshed and prepared for another day fulfilling his duties. That his duties could be satisfactorily completed by a lobotomized monkey was no reason to allow himself to fall into sloth--or bitterness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Release

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted 4/9/2006. Related to episode _405: Ladies Man_. Back in the day, j-s-cavalcante very kindly offered to provide cogent pointers on this story, which I gratefully accepted. Any remaining errors remain my own ;)

There was, he insisted to himself, no reason for his restlessness. Fraser rolled onto his back, adjusting his bedroll and the flannel shirt he used as a pillow, wondering if he was too hot? Or possibly the Philly Cheese Steak Ray had forced him to try--nearly as revolting as poutine--was disagreeing with him?

It was his duty to sleep, to wake refreshed and prepared for another day fulfilling his duties. That his duties could be satisfactorily completed by a lobotomized monkey was no reason to allow himself to fall into sloth--or bitterness. Beyond all that, spending the night listening to Diefenbaker's snoring might possibly drive him insane. Fraser rolled onto his side, shifting until the angles of his hips and the unforgiving consulate floor came to some sort of agreement. He shut his eyes, and gritted his teeth; he would sleep.

Two hours later, he rolled back onto his back.

He'd tried opening a window, allowing the heavy night air to slip inside, and he'd taken a half-teaspoon of baking soda in water in case it was indigestion troubling him and no sleep seemed forthcoming. Fraser sighed and tucked a hand under his head; he could admit defeat. Therefore, he would make use of the time and review the upcoming day's tasks. It was the sensible thing to do.

Instead, he rubbed his thumb over the nape of his own neck idly, feeling the texture of the short crisp hairs there. The difference between his own hair pattern and Ray's was subtle, but there.

The texture of Ray's hair was printed on his palm like a tactile tattoo.

Fraser traced the straight, neat line of his hair with a thoughtful thumb. Ray Kowalski had not cut his hair recently--in fact, he'd not even styled his hair properly in the days leading up to Beth Botrelle's execution. When Fraser had put an awkward hand on Ray's neck as he sobbed in relief, the hairs there had been somewhere between prickly and soft. Unique, indefinable and completely unmistakable, like Ray himself.

His skin had been hot and sweaty, Fraser had felt—and smelled—the stress sweating out of him. It had not been a pleasant scent and yet it had been a welcome one. A release of long held tension and of guilt, a letting go of suffering. Ray's thin body had been battered by the storm of his own tears, tremors that Fraser could still feel echoing restlessly in his own chest..

"Ah," Fraser said into the dark and pulled his hand away from his hair, finally recognizing the source of his own sleeplessness. He folded his hands over his chest and shut his eyes, ignoring the prickly urges of his body. Ray's well deserved release was no excuse for losing control and Fraser would not--he would not--give way to base impulse with his second-chance partner.

Impulse and release had already cost him one Ray. He was not about to lose another.

"Ray," he mourned.

Ray whose impulsive nature had saved his life, whose impulsive actions--no matter the shape of them--had saved his career, his self-respect and possibly his very soul. Ray whose nature--quick moving, restless, honest, demanding--had undone all of Fraser's defenses and left him vulnerable to emotions and desires he'd never before acknowledged.

_Ray Vecchio._

Then, his restlessness, given name, would not be denied. It was hard to resist himself, in the night, and weren't sleepless nights like this made for memories and regrets? Was it really such a crime to miss Ray Vecchio? To wonder if he was still alive? To wonder if he too, lay awake thinking of his Benny?

Fraser squeezed his eyes shut, unable to voice the questions that haunted him even now--alone in the dark. Had Ray Vecchio left him because of the impulses neither of them could control? Had it been, had they been, so impossible, so terrible, that Ray had to abandon his own family, his own _name_ to escape them? Had _Fraser_ been so terrible?

Fraser stared up at the dark ceiling, choking on unspoken words and unshed tears. The impulses he generated in others; Victoria, Ray Vecchio, Meg Thatcher, they always seemed unhealthy ones.

It had been impulse that had dragged him and Ray together. How could you plan to put your hands on your best friend's penis? How could you anticipate the way he would groan, eyes wide and stunned in the moment just before he shoved you down onto your own cot? How could you analyze the way another man's semen would feel on your fingers? Fraser dragged in a shaky breath, hands unconsciously clenching. He could still remember the miraculous feel of Ray's erection in his hand.

That impulse had lasted a bare handful of moments; panting into each other's necks, pants barely undone, knuckles bashing as they masturbated each other. That was all it had been.

That was all it was going to be, Ray Vecchio had made clear as he buttoned his pants with shaking fingers. Over, done, forgotten.

Until the next time. And the next.

Each time, the suddenness of lust was a shock; base, instinctive and overwhelming. Ray pushing him into the supply closet simply to _touch_ him. Fraser discovering his craving for Ray's body, for his weight, for the press--clumsy and hurried and awkward--of Ray's penis into him. Ray murmuring choked Italian love words against Fraser's sweating shoulders as he took him with a roughness approaching brutality. They had not used condoms. They never kissed. It was always dark.

Fraser didn't begrudge Ray his social homophobia, he respected him for struggling so hard against it.

But there were times, like tonight, when his skin cried out for the touch of a friend, that he hated Ray Vecchio for losing that struggle.

He could not sleep, he could hardly _breathe_ with his heart pounding in his chest and finally Fraser gave way to the impulse thundering in his blood and hurriedly unbuttoned his long-johns. He could not have Ray Vecchio and he certainly could not have Ray Kowalski. He slipped a hand into his underwear, closing around the hot weight of his penis. This was what he could have. Fraser shut his eyes tight, his hand tight as well. This was what he could have and this would have to do.

And, in moments, it was done.

But still, the memory of Ray's hairline remained in his palm, an impulse waiting to happen.

 

**END (040906)**


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